Correspondence
by ncfan
Summary: In Valinor, young Maglor makes a friend.


I own nothing.

* * *

Thirty-year-old Makalaurë could claim to be having a very good day, better even than most of the others, in fact. Of course, Maitimo would remark that Makalaurë could hardly tell the difference between a good day and a bad one, since he'd never really had what could qualify as a truly horrible day. In response to that, Makalaurë would probably have scowled and grumbled at his attempt to quibble over semantics, but thankfully, Maitimo wasn't trying to make that argument today, so there would be no argument between them.

They were attending a music festival in Alqualondë. Makalaurë had heard about it a month ago, and begged his father to let him go attend it, making all sorts of outlandish promises if Fëanáro would just let him go to Alqualondë. Fëanáro, though not personally having much use for music (though he would not think of discouraging his son from something he had such an obvious passion for), and though he did not like the idea of any of his children neglecting their lessons for any reason short of injury or illness, could not resist the pleas of his second-born for long. He shot a look at Nerdanel, who, being quite thoroughly engrossed in clay-moulding at the time, simply shrugged, and Fëanáro set the conditions that Maitimo, a respectable adult at ninety-two, had to agree to go with him, and that they could only stay for a few hours, "_but yes, Makalaurë, you can go." _And promptly came close to being bowled over by his second son, who was quite enthusiastic in showing his gratitude.

Alqualondë rose over the gently rolling hills like a pinkish-white mirage, the clear blue sea lapping behind it, a soft silvery mist rising over it, and Maitimo laughed gently to hear his much-younger brother gasp at the sight of it. Alqualondë was not like Tirion. All the buildings, from the homes of the poor to the King's palace in the center, were plastered in stucco that ranged in color from red to pink to white. Tirion was neatly constructed; everything had its proper place, every house was guaranteed to be a certain distance from the house next to it, and the city itself was shaped in a neat circle, with all new building plants taking into account an apparently desperate need for symmetry.

On the other hand, Alqualondë had no such need for symmetry or neatness. The city was not constructed in a neat and simple circle; it was sprawling, fanning out in all directions, without walls or fortifications or any defense against attack as Tirion had. The roads were winding, not straight with sharp right turns; some were wide, and others were narrow, and there was no road that you could take that would lead you directly to the center of town, the Square, where the music festival was being held, that would not involve making many turns.

Maitimo sighed as he looked upon it, brow furrowed. "I may need to stop and ask for directions, brother," he warned Makalaurë. "I am not certain I remember the way into the center of town."

"That sounds fine," Makalaurë responded, with such an air of forced dignity—trying, he would later ruefully admit, to sound older than he was so that perhaps this sort of outing would not be a one-time affair—that Maitimo had to laugh, his worry mostly forgotten. They were not traveling as princes of the Noldor, sons of the High Prince and grandsons of the King. Had they been, they likely would have been accompanied by one who knew the layout of Alqualondë better and could have directed them, but never had Fëanáro possessed much love for traveling as a High Prince, and this trait he had passed down to his sons. They traveled as brothers, nothing more, nothing less, and as such, had no guide, and would not be announced.

They wandered aimlessly about Alqualondë for a while, barely standing out at all thanks to the influx of Noldorin and Vanyarin Elves present on this day, and on that account, quickly finding someone who could point them towards the town Square.

"Take two left turns, and follow the sounds of music!" the dye seller called after them, as they picked their way through the crowd. Maitimo made Makalaurë hold his hand in the streets and "Do not wander off once we reach the Square," he said sternly to him, neither of which he liked very much, but Makalaurë realized that Father would likely quiz Maitimo as to how he'd behaved once they returned home. Never did Maitimo lie under such circumstances; if Makalaurë misbehaved, there was a good chance that he wouldn't be allowed back, so he held his tongue and consented to hold Maitimo's larger hand in his.

Besides, it was not so bad. Makalaurë did not mind his older brother's company; if anything, he was glad to have his undivided attention for what felt like the first time since Tyelkormo and tiny Morifinwë had been born. And they could have been forced to take their brothers, and Irissë and Findaráto with them as well.

The air was bright with the clean, clear smell of sea-salt and brisk ocean wind; Laurelin's light was so strong and so hot here as to nearly blind the eyes and sear the skin. Beyond the salt, Makalaurë could detect the smell of fish, strong and pungent, but somehow not unpleasant. There was also present the acrid odor of dye, the sweet, tangy scent of tropical fruits and flowers, the aroma of various different pastries in the bakeries present on every corner. All of these smells pressed in on Makalaurë, commingled, as they never did in Tirion, where even the various _smells _were orderly and well-separate.

And there was the music.

The Teleri were said to be the Elves who best loved music and song, and the Swan-Elves were said to the Elves of the Teleri who best loved music and song. Makalaurë, though he was taught his music by a Noldorin master in Tirion, had grown up being told that the Teleri were the most skilled of all Elves with song. They must have been nearing the Square, for Makalaurë could hear jumbled songs of harp, flute, lyre, lute, horn, trumpet, drum, recorder, dulcimer, even cymbals. There must have been more, just out of the reach of his ears. His heart sang. With his free hand, Makalaurë reached into his satchel to feel the warm alder wood of his harp.

Makalaurë and Maitimo slipped through an alleyway, narrow and lined with discarded crates and plates for the feeding of stray cats. The alley grew narrower and narrower as they walked, Laurelin's light becoming a narrow strip of blinding gold in the distance. Soon, Makalaurë's shoulders brushed the stucco-plastered walls on both sides, and Maitimo was forced to walk sideways in order to move forwards.

Then, they stepped out into a world flooded with light and sound.

"Ooh!"

One sibling stared excitedly around at the bustle and jumble of different songs being played at all times, at the tables loaded down with wares, from musical instruments to boxes made of sea shells to food and drink, and the other looked round as well, happy but less exuberant, more concerned about keeping the littler one close to him. "Remember to stay close to me," Maitimo warned.

Makalaurë nodded, barely hearing him. He drew his alder wood harp from his satchel, spying as he did so spots among the Square where musicians had settled down to play for the people who milled about the square. Some had tins for coins set out in front of them, but other musicians, typically better-dressed and better-fed, did not. Makalaurë wondered if any of the groups were looking for a harpist; he always enjoyed playing for an audience…

"Ah, excellent!" A nís's voice sounded over his head, bright and light like birdsong, unlike the heavy, almost metallic tones of Noldor-accented Quenya, and Makalaurë looked up to see who it was who had spoken.

The first thing he saw of the nís was that she was very tall, and that she had a great deal of hair. A _very _great deal of hair, thick, frizzy, fly-away curls springing from the nís's head and down her back, and their bright golden color identified her as having Vanyarin blood. One look at her face confirmed her as a full-blooded Vanya, despite being rather taller than was typical for a Vanyarin nís. Her broad, heart-shaped face and bright blue eyes had the nearly incandescent look of one who dwelled close to the Two Trees; Grandmother Indis (though Fëanáro told his sons not to call her 'Grandmother', and Indis had not lived in Taniquetil for many years) looked much the same as this one. Makalaurë blinked up at her, and she laughed, adjusting a strap thrown about her chest, holding something to her back. "Do you play that harp well, little one?" she asked brightly, her eyes alight with curiosity.

Over him, Maitimo snorted, knowing as he did both his brother's musical skill and his opinion of having said skills questioned in any way. For himself, Makalaurë could not keep some level of displeasure from his voice as he responded, "Yes, I think I play my harp _very _well."

The nís laughed rather than taking any offense. "Good! Allow me to introduce myself as I should have done. I am Elemmírë Lelyë, daughter of Elendur and Indilë, preferring to be called Elemmírë. I am, as you can see—" she drew the strap away from her shoulders, and revealed the item across her back to be a lute "—a lutenist, and as my partner has neglected to arrive, I am looking for a harpist to perform a duet with."

At the realization that this grown Elf wished for him to perform with her, Makalaurë's irritation vanished, replaced with a beam and a smile. He'd heard of her; she was a Vanyarin musician of some note. "I'm Kanafinwë Makalaurë, son of Fëanáro and Nerdanel; most call me Makalaurë. I'll play with you."

Elemmírë's grin widened. "Your name is familiar to me. Come along, then."

They found an uninhabited patch of dry, clean stone. After arguing at length about which song would be best to start on—Makalaurë had always been told that his tastes in music barely seemed Noldorin at all, considering that he saw absolutely no need for the strict structure that dominated Noldorin compositions, but Elemmírë's tastes and his did not mesh at all—they started to play. And played. And played.

Maitimo watched them for the longest time, amazed, Makalaurë could have only supposed, at how long the two of them could keep it up, despite the fact that one was so young and the two of them had never met before that day. They played, and spoke, and sang. Makalaurë got over any level of offense he'd had with this Vanya and Elemmírë barely seemed to care that her music and conversation partner was a child, while she had to be at least Maitimo's age, if not older. All the while, they drew a larger and larger crowd, Noldor and Teleri and a few Vanyar sprinkled in between the mix, until finally their songs petered out. The pair stood and took a bow, smiled at the applause, and mopped their brows against the fierce afternoon light as the crowds dissipated.

Not long after that, Makalaurë had to go home. This was not at all to his liking; he'd made a new friend, after all, and new friends were not such a common commodity that he could simply bid Elemmírë farewell and go on his way unaffected!

However, not all was lost.

-0-0-0-

_To the little harpist and singer of Tirion upon Túna,_

_Your address is not at all difficult to procure, Makalaurë, but I suppose I should not be surprised by that. I confess myself driven to pity by the crestfallen face you showed when your brother bid you leave with him for Tirion the week before last, if you will accept any pity of mine. I thought it only appropriate that friends should keep up correspondence, if they can not meet face-to-face regularly._

_Also, I thought that you might like the experience of familiarizing yourself with Vanyarin sheet music—I doubt your teacher in Tirion has any of the like amongst his stores. You'll find it in the envelope with this letter._

_With love,_

_Elemmírë Lelyë, Taniquetil_

-0-0-0-

_To Elemmírë Lelyë,_

_Thank you for your letter (Mother says that it is not often that Vanyarin and Noldorin Elves have contact with one another, though I don't think she meant for me to hear her). I am glad that we will be able to speak with one another._

_I asked my music instructor, and he does have Vanyarin sheet music for harp-playing, but none of it was the same as yours, so I am glad of that. I think the Vanyarin sheet music might actually fit me better than Noldorin sheet music, even if you and I do not agree; I still say Telerin sheet music is superior (Do not tell my father). I've made copies of some of the sheet music he has for lutes and flute, since you said you play the flute as well; I'll send them with the letter._

_I hope you'll write back to me soon._

_Best wishes,_

_Kanafinwë Makalaurë_

-0-0-0-

"Father is in his forge and Mother at her sculptures, so it will be just us this morning for breakfast," Maitimo said to Makalaurë as the latter entered the kitchen, where Fëanáro and his family usually broke their fast, that morning. Maitimo's hands were a bit full at the moment; he was attempting to persuade Morifinwë to have a bite of his porridge, and _not _bite Maitimo's fingers in the process, since Morifinwë was still teething and found fingers more appetizing than porridge. Tyelkormo was not there. Where he was, Makalaurë did not know, and did not particularly mind; it was really far too early in the morning to be worrying about his brother.

As Makalaurë was in the process of eating his own breakfast, Maitimo recalled the messenger who had brought letters to the door of their home earlier that morning. "Oh, Kano. You got a letter today; it's on the table, see?"

Makalaurë blinked uncomprehendingly up at him, bleary-eyed and tired. Then, comprehension dawned on him, and his face lit up. He snatched the envelope from the center of the table and let out a loud, stridently excited sound at his recognition of the handwriting on the envelope.

"Another letter from Elemmírë?" Maitimo asked, amused.

His brother's head bobbed up and down as he got up from the table and started to leave. "Well, you had best take care that your pretty friend from music lessons does not grow hot with envy, for Elemmírë's quite lovely and with the way you're acting…"

Maitimo looked up, and realized that he was alone with Morifinwë in the kitchen. "He didn't even eat any of his breakfast," he muttered to himself, astounded.

Then…

"Ai, Moryo! Not my fingers!"

* * *

Makalaurë, Kanafinwë, Kano—Maglor  
Maitimo—Maedhros  
Fëanáro—Fëanor  
Tyelkormo—Celegorm  
Morifinwë, Moryo—Caranthir  
Irissë—Aredhel  
Findaráto—Finrod

Nís—woman (plural: nissi)


End file.
